Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  When she finally did, he was lost.

  He drank from her sweetness, her strength. He willed his hands to stay where they were, not wanting to scare her by allowing them to wander. But with every movement of her mouth, with every press of their tongues, he wanted more.

  So much more, it terrified the hell out of him. He’d never felt this out of control with a woman before.

  What a stupid, idiotic promise he’d made. To take her back and set her free? As if he wouldn’t slam his fist in the face of the first man she kissed, other than him.

  I want to be free.

  He’d do well to remember it. Still, Greyson couldn’t stop. At least not until the neighing of her skittish horse interrupted them. Reminding him of where they were, and what they had to do next.

  Shit.

  Pulling away, he let his hands linger on her face, cupping it as he looked into her eyes, waiting for her to change her mind.

  But she wouldn’t. He understood the resolve there. It was a feeling he knew well.

  “That was enjoyable.”

  He ruined the moment by letting go of her face, by laughing at the beautiful simplicity of her words.

  “I should hope so.”

  Thankfully, she smiled too.

  “Can we do it again?”

  He took her hand, leading them to the horses.

  “That’s what freedom means, Marian. You can do whatever the hell you want. If you want to kiss me, go for it. If you want to tell me to fuck off, you can do that too.”

  Reluctantly letting her go once again, Greyson started untying their horses from the tree.

  “Your uncle won’t be pleased. I’m not sure you understand the implications.”

  With both horses untied, they faced each other.

  “Which is probably a good thing.”

  Marian rolled her eyes. “Duncan’s father is one of your Guardians. He’s a powerful man, more powerful than my father even.”

  Yeah, he didn’t really want to know all of that. Not because he wanted to be ignorant of the potential fallout, but because it didn’t matter. She had made her decision, and Greyson would do whatever was necessary to support that. Period. End of story. She’d been treated like a pawn for her entire life, and it was time for that shit to stop.

  He smiled. “Apparently my family is pretty powerful too. What kind of woman survives an attack by the same man complicit in the murder of a king? Or consorts with fae to devise a way to send her sister through time? We’ll worry about Ross’s reaction, and your father’s and your fiancé’s, when we need to. For now, let’s concentrate on getting to Hallstead Manor in one piece.”

  “I think we have a more immediate concern.” Marian nodded her head, indicating he should turn around.

  So he did.

  And cursed under his breath.

  17

  Alban had seen them.

  And was walking toward them with a grimace that would have made Ross proud. Marian stepped forward, prepared to apologize and beg forgiveness for such untoward behavior.

  “Before you say anything, she’s no longer betrothed. We head straight for Hallstead Manor.” Greyson’s words did not invite a response.

  “If we do not take her to the Earl of Fife . . .” Alban’s words trailed off as he looked from her to Greyson.

  That’s what freedom means. You can do whatever the hell you want.

  It sounded so sweet, but at what cost? For she had no doubt both her father and the Scottish earl would look for her. If either found her, Marian might wish for death instead of the punishment she would find for abandoning her duty.

  A duty she’d never wanted.

  Or asked for.

  But one that had hung over her for as many years as she’d been alive.

  “My lady?”

  Alban could likely sense her hesitation. But he mistook the reason for it. Despite the danger, Marian would risk everything for the chance to feel as she had at Quinting Castle. As she did with Greyson’s lips pressed to hers.

  She hesitated because of something else Greyson had said.

  Say what you’re feeling, Marian, and make no apologies.

  Marian had been about to do just that. Sharing a kiss with a man not her husband, or even her betrothed, was that not wrong? Marian was unsure what to say even if she owed no explanation.

  “I wish to accompany you to Hallstead Manor,” she said finally.

  With a shake of his head, Alban walked away, leaving them alone again. Silently, they led their horses away from the river bank and toward the road.

  “We’ll figure this out together,” Greyson said. And she’d never liked a word better than she liked that one. Together.

  Marian could feel her cheeks warming as she looked at him.

  In response, he winked at her just before they emerged from the thicket. For the remainder of the day, Marian alternated from panicked moments imagining her father’s reaction when he learned she had not made it to Duncan to elation at the thought of not having to marry a man with such a horrible reputation.

  And then there was Greyson.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of the village of Kenfern, Marian knew more about this man from another time. Riding well behind the others across mostly flat marshland, they’d spoken easily well into the night.

  He told her of his family, of the city where he was from. Of his father’s business, which had been passed to the sons, and the toll his mother’s disappearance had taken on all of them. But there were things Greyson did not say that Marian learned anyway.

  He loved his family very much. Though he spoke of disagreements with each of them, Greyson obviously adored them all. Worry for them overshadowed even his fear at having been tossed into a time not his own. Finding his mother and brother, returning to his father—those were the only things that mattered to him.

  How, precisely, did she fit into his plans?

  “It looks like a movie set.”

  Marian was becoming accustomed to Greyson’s strange words.

  “Movie set?”

  He glanced ahead, as if judging the distance to the others, and gave a small shake of his head. They were getting too close to speak freely anymore. “I’ll tell you about that later.”

  “The owner of the Brable Inn is also Kenfern’s alewife,” Brodie said as they caught up to the rest of the group. “She’ll be askin’ questions.”

  He didn’t have to explain. Even Greyson seemed to understand those questions would be about her.

  “Seriously? She’s been traveling with us for days with no problems.”

  “As the daughter of the Earl of Fenwall whose guards were killed, leaving her without escort.”

  Greyson shrugged. “And?”

  Brodie and Alban exchanged a glance.

  “’Tis an identity she can no longer take.”

  The men had obviously spoken amongst themselves about her situation. She’d thought about it too—of course she had—but her conversation with Greyson had been so thrilling, she’d been loath to cut it short to discuss the hard realities of their situation.

  “Word will spread when I do not arrive to marry Duncan.”

  Greyson tipped his head. “Word of Lady Marian, or a woman by another name. Does it matter when your companions are known?”

  “I know only of the alewife by reputation,” Brodie said. “We’ve not stayed here before.”

  She could see Greyson understood now.

  “You’ll all be taking on aliases to protect Marian?”

  Marian raised her chin, addressing the men. Knowing it was time for her to do so.

  “I lost those dear to me, and others loyal to my father. I’ve been bartered to secure an alliance between my father and his northern neighbors for reasons unbeknownst to me. You’ve done more to protect me than I can thank you for. But I cannot ask that you put yourselves in danger. Can we not avoid Kenfern Village?”

  It was Brodie who answered. “We need supplies. And rest. None know us,
or you, here. We vowed to keep you safe, and will do so, my lady.”

  It was more than she deserved.

  “Call none by name,” Alban said to the others. “And the lady is . . .” He looked to her for ideas, but Marian had no response.

  “She is my wife.” Greyson nodded toward the village. “I am Greyson McCaim and Marian is my wife.”

  Everyone looked at her.

  Though she knew it was only a falsehood intended to pacify the innkeepers, Marian could not help the flutter inside her stomach.

  “As he says.”

  Brodie repeated her words. “As he says.”

  With that, they rode on, moving past a waterwheel and a smithy and into the muddy roads between wooden buildings outlined in moonlight. Where before the smell was of woods and fresh air, here the scent was of roasting meat and wood fires.

  As the two-story inn came into view, they slowed. Greyson dismounted before she did, and Marian found herself reaching down to his outstretched hand.

  “Mrs. McCaim,” he said as she took his hand.

  Though the term was unfamiliar to her, she understood what it signified.

  And suddenly, the prospect of marriage she’d so long despised was no longer unwelcome. Pretending to be Greyson’s wife would not be difficult. Indeed, she imagined it would prove to be just the opposite.

  18

  Being “married” to Marian was pure hell. More torturous than he could have possibly imagined.

  The conversation at dinner, effortless, as it had been all day. But then they’d gone up to their room, which they’d have to share given their ruse, and it was smaller than his college dorm room.

  He left her to change, finding the great room downstairs, though it wasn’t so great, especially compared to their last lodgings at the castle, but the men had already gone off to their own sleeping area.

  The men they traveled with were good men, he’d learned. Ones he could easily have been friends with back home. They joked around, just as his friends would have back home. Clansmen, according to Ross. And he was learning membership in a clan was nearly the same as being in a family. Sometimes they disagreed. Fought even. But these men would kill for Ross, for Marian, and even for him.

  Literally kill. Not some metaphorical shit. Which was scary as hell, really.

  Knowing the only bath that awaited him in the room was a scented bowl of water with a cloth the size of a hand towel to dry, Greyson headed to the river as he’d done every time one was nearby. Thankfully, it was mostly quiet. Aside from a few squawking chickens and a woman tossing a bucket of water out of a back window of the inn, he didn’t run into anyone.

  When Ross had first caught him in the very illicit act of actually wanting to be clean, he’d warned him not to make it a habit. Apparently bathing wasn’t always possible. Greyson couldn’t wait to share that bit of irony with his mother.

  He would see her again. He had to believe it.

  As he stripped, preparing himself for the bitter cold, he allowed himself to imagine the reunion. With every day that passed, Greyson was more and more sure his mother was here. It made sense, his father’s claim that she’d been pulled back. Aunt Grace must have found some way to summon her.

  He still hadn’t worked out the time travel rules exactly, but it seemed like travelers returning to their own time resurfaced close to the time of their disappearance. With luck, that meant when they returned not much time would have passed, just like when his mom had traveled back here.

  Of course, his theory could be complete shit too.

  If Mom had been pulled back, where was she? And where was Rhys? Would he find them at Perthshire, or had they already moved on?

  And had Reikart and Ian found a way to follow them here?

  The questions had been running through his mind over and over again, but he forced them out, knowing what he’d told Marian was true. They had to focus on staying alive, reaching Ross, and then finding his family.

  But first things first. He needed to survive this night. Alone in a room with Marian.

  Something told him that would be his biggest challenge yet.

  The cold of the river hit him as it did every time. The coldest water that came through his faucet back home was like a sauna compared to the temperature of this water. Making quick work of a modified bath, Greyson dried and dressed again, then headed back to the inn as if it were the last few steps of a plank. No one prevented him from entering the hall, finding their room, and knocking on the door using the code word they’d set.

  “Lagniappe.”

  He’d explained the concept of something “extra,” a little bonus as it were, to Marian, one of many things he’d told her about his time. But there were so many things he still hadn’t said. Most of it would just have to go without explanation until she could witness it for herself.

  If they got back.

  When she opened the door, Greyson swallowed. If he’d thought her fully clothed form a treat for his eyes, this was the whole damn bakery.

  “Maid Marian.”

  From what he could tell, costume designers had gotten this one right. The nightgown-looking thing covered every inch of her, but somehow it was more erotic than any piece of lingerie he’d ever seen.

  She typically wore her hair down, but tonight it was braided down her back.

  More accessible in some ways, less in others. A woman whose life had been turned upside-down, but who was, for tonight, his wife.

  In name only.

  “You never did tell me that story,” she said softly as she walked to the bed, the only bed, and sat. Clearly self-conscious, she tried to play off a calm he knew she didn’t feel.

  To be honest, neither did he. Greyson’s heart was beating like a virgin’s, the very thought of being alone, in a bedroom, with Marian heady enough that it was hard to walk. But walk he did, pulling out a simple wooden chair, careful not to knock over the two candles on the table beside it.

  He was starting to become accustomed to the smell of smoke these candles gave off, although the ones in the castle had smoldered less. It couldn’t be good for the lungs.

  Straddling the chair to hide his obvious arousal, he leaned over the top of it, content just to watch her expression as it changed from apprehension to interest.

  “It’s a bit of English folklore. Robin Hood was an outlaw. A nobleman and an expert archer. He was known for stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.” He smiled. “And for his beautiful lover, Maid Marian.”

  She cocked her head to the side, pretending to be thoughtful.

  “So she was beautiful, this Maid Marian?”

  God, yes.

  “The legends all say so. And confident. She apparently loved Robin Hood very much.”

  “Why do you suppose a woman like that should love a thief?”

  “Ahh,” he teased, “not just any thief. One who gave his earnings to those in need.”

  “’Tis still thievery.”

  “But for a purpose.”

  “Do you think he was in the right, then?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “To love a beautiful, confident woman who returned his affections? Hell yes.”

  Marian rolled her eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  The playfulness in her expression didn’t do anything to dampen his amorous mood. This room was small and musty. But sitting at the bedside of this woman in candlelight, talking about Robin Hood . . . this was probably the most romantic thing he’d ever done.

  Greyson wasn’t Ian. He didn’t wine and dine. When he made time for women, it was usually brief and never serious. Work consumed him. Proving himself to his father, to Rhys, had been his purpose for as long as he could remember.

  But things were different here. Survival was the name of the game. Made one think a bit.

  “I know what you meant. But I’d much prefer to talk about love than the merits of wealth redistribution.”

  “Have you been in love before?”

  �
��No.” He didn’t even need to think about it. Lisa had been his longest relationship, and he’d never lost himself to her. Not even a little. The thought of comparing her even remotely to Marian was absurd.

  He watched her carefully. “Have you?”

  Marian shook her head. “I’m not allowed to fall in love.”

  He didn’t mean to laugh, but it bubbled out of him. The hurt on her face drew Greyson up out of his chair. He sat next to her on the bed, his weight pulling them both down. With luck, the damn thing would hold. It didn’t seem like the sturdiest thing ever.

  “You are now.”

  He’d meant that she was free from Duncan. That she would be returning with him to a place where she could forge her own path. But he didn’t correct himself. The idea of Marian being in love with him was undeniably pleasant.

  “Where you’re going, you can love anyone you’d like. You can be, or do, anything. No restrictions.”

  “Not even those of birth?”

  His shoulders sank. Greyson’s parents had worked damned hard to build McCaim Shipping, but the truth was he’d grown up privileged. His mother had insisted they work, always. They’d earned things like cars and cell phones from putting in time at the company. But he’d grown up in a mansion. Gone to Yale.

  “The class system isn’t gone,” he admitted. “Some people are born into wealth, like me. Others, not so much. But there is opportunity too. And your heart—” He reached out without thinking, placing his hand over her chest. “Your heart is yours to give, or to keep.”

  Marian bit her lip, and he was lost.

  “And if I choose to give it to you?”

  His chest constricted.

  “I would be honored,” he said honestly.

  Greyson waited, just a moment, to let his words sink in. And then he leaned forward, his hand still over her heart. When she closed her eyes in anticipation, Greyson had to will his body to stand down. Her lips, so soft and innocent. But this time she knew what to do. And when their kiss turned heated pretty damn quickly, she responded by opening for him.

  Tongues tangling, Greyson tried to take it slow, reminding himself every sensation was new to her. But when Marian’s hands moved to his head, pressing him closer to her, his tenuous grip on willpower gave way.